


Hold The Candle Tightly

by icarus_chained



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse, Justice League of America (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Magic, Supernatural Elements, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Victorian gaslight AU. In October, 1884, a young Bruce Wayne, recently orphaned, begins to sense an invisible presence in the manor, and determines to survive this ghostly presence</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold The Candle Tightly

**Author's Note:**

> Old story, written for a Halloween Challenge by Bradygirl12

_October, 1884:_

The great grandfather clock in the hall was ticking its slow, ponderous way towards ten o' clock. His chin in his hands, his knees drawn up tight, a small boy named Bruce Wayne sat on the stairs, watching the weighty swing of the brass pendulum with quiet, pensive fascination. He made no sound, this little boy, his breathing calm and even, his eyes fixed on the muted gleam of the gaslamps where it played golden over the glass front of the clock. The night was cold and still, and it seemed for that little time that there was no sound in all the world, save for the tick-tock of the ancient clock, the quiet hiss of the gas, and the steady breathing of the child.

"Master Bruce?" An older gentleman stepped quietly into the downstairs hall, the light and heat from the kitchens appearing briefly through the door at his back. He held a lit candle in one hand, and looked carefully and efficiently around in search of the child.

"Here, Alfred," Bruce answered softly, never taking his eyes from the clock, but suddenly he seemed ... easier. More relaxed. Tension hidden in the shoulders suddenly seemed to slip away. The old man, Alfred, turned towards his voice, a quiet frown of worry forming briefly between his eyes that was quickly banished. He moved around to the foot of the stairs, watching the child with sad and humorous eyes. Bruce looked back easily.

"I suppose I should not ask why you are sitting on the stairs on your own?" he asked softly, and Bruce smiled.

"Probably not," he answered, getting to his feet and brushing instinctively at his trousers before coming down to stand on the bottom step in front of Alfred. He looked up and met his guardian's eyes with quiet self-confidence, and for a second something deep and indefinable passed over the older man's face, a depth of emotion that touched the surface for barely an instant. But it was there, and the boy saw it, and his smile as he reached out to take the candle was shy and proud and loving. "I was just thinking," he said, briefly, as if that explained all. And for this child, it did.

"Be careful not to think too hard, or you'll not get to sleep," Alfred admonished gently, and the boy grinned.

"I never sleep all that much anyway," he answered, and if there were secrets, reasons behind that, for now it was said and meant only with a child's natural mischief. Let me stay up past bedtime, please, fath ... ah. No. But close.

Alfred shook his head in exasperation. That was the truth of it, of course, and Bruce knew he didn't like it. But Alfred never argued with him, not about that. Either sleep would come, or it wouldn't. For whatever reason. And as Bruce watched, Alfred seemed to put it from his mind, and asked a question that had been needling him for the past three nights, if the boy was any judge.

"If you don't mind my asking, why the candle, young sir?" he asked, watching the boy's eyes carefully. "The gas is lit upstairs for most of the night."

Bruce looked away, something, a shadow, flitting briefly behind his eyes. "I know," he said, stiffly, but did not elaborate. Alfred looked at him for a long moment, his gaze steady and weighing, a look that had drawn many a reluctant confession from the child in the past, but this time Bruce remained resolute. He looked away, refused to meet Alfred's eyes, and did not say another thing. And after a moment, Alfred let him go. He would wait. Bruce knew he would wait. Alfred always did, until Bruce had figured out how he was supposed to explain.

"Very well," he said, quietly, with a gentle smile. "Would you like me to escort you upstairs?" He hid the broader smile as Bruce gave him a huffy look in response, but it could still be seen, just, as if that had been exactly what he had been aiming for. He shook his head wryly, and nodded in seeming surrender. "Very well. I'll wish you goodnight, sir."

Bruce nodded at him, watching with vivid blue eyes as Alfred bowed slightly and walked back towards his kitchens, towards the warmth and light of them. A small boy with a candle, alone on a shadowy stair. And as the older man walked away, there was a cant to his shoulders, an uneasiness, that said he understood the loneliness of it. But he could do nothing. Bruce was Bruce, and would ever be so.

"Goodnight, Alfred," Bruce whispered softly, as the door closed with a quiet click behind his friend. And then, quieter again, so soft it was barely said at all ... "I love you." He stood watching that closed door for a long time, silent and uncertain, reluctant to move, to leave the promise of warmth if he could only reach out and accept it. The clock ticked sedately on, a rhythm as deep and implacable as the universe, and the silence drew in around the child like a thick, black shadow. And deeper again, behind young blue eyes, a different shadow grew. A knowing. A waiting. Bruce stood on the stairs, the candle flickering fitfully in his hand, and stared desperately at the door.

And then the clock chimed ten.

Bruce jumped, almost dropping the candle, its flame sputtering in shock. The clear, crystalline chimes measured out the hour regardless, the clock serenely unconcerned with his fright, and though his head automatically turned to glare at it, it was the stairs that drew Bruce's gaze. The gaslamps on the landing shone gently back at him, little pools in the shadows. Ten o' clock, the clock sang. Ten o' clock. Time for little boys to be in bed. Time for little boys to go upstairs to bed.

No matter how little they wanted to.

Bruce stared up at those lights on the landing, his fingers tightening around his candle, his breath speeding imperceptibly. He stared up the stairs, and it was fear, real fear, that lurked in his blue eyes. He knew what was waiting. He knew what would come, knew what lurked in the shadows between those lights. He knew it, and there was nothing he could do about it.

A hot drop of wax interrupted the panicked spiral of his thoughts, dripping onto his fingers, drawing his attention to the candle. To the quiet, cheerful little flame that danced in his hand. His protection. His weapon. Because the thing that waited up there didn't like the flame. Didn't like the light and warmth of it. He was safe, as long as he had his candle. The thing couldn't touch him.

He looked back at the stairs, at the landing, and once more at his candle, and he straightened small shoulders determinedly. It wouldn't touch him. It _couldn't_ touch him. It could say things, and whisper to him, and say things without a sound, but it couldn't touch him. And he was a Wayne. He could cope with people saying things to him. He could.

Taking a deep breath, stiffening his spine, his eyes fixed on the top of the stairs, Bruce raised his foot and slowly, cautiously, placed it on the next step. And then the other. And then the next step. And the next. Slowly, the tension coiled so tight inside him it was a wonder it didn't make him sick, Bruce climbed the stairs. One foot, one step at a time. And if the candle quavered in his hand, well, he never once paused once that first step was taken. Bruce Wayne was like that.

The landing was silent when he reached it. Empty, and he could feel the emptiness, could feel the lack of a presence. The thing wasn't here, not yet. Bruce could always tell when it was, could always feel it near him. It wasn't here. It was safe to go on.

The corridor was darker, the gaslamps fewer and a little farther between. Of course, Bruce knew every inch of this house by heart, same as Alfred. Even without the candle, he didn't need light to find his way. But for other things ... he would have rathered the place was better lit. And by candles, not lamps. Because the thing was more afraid, more hesitant to approach a candle, an open flame, than it was to approach the glass globes that shielded the lamps. Bruce had discovered that one by accident, when it tried to talk to him in his room, but he had rapidly tested it, and found the theory sound. A candle was the best protection. A fire, too. The thing never came to the kitchens, or the study, or the drawing room. Not even when he was alone in there. So a fire, or a candle, and he could hardly carry the fireplace around with him.

His room was up another flight, a narrow one more to the back of the house, and this was the worst part. This was the dangerous place, the place where the thing most often appeared. Well, not appeared, because it had no shape, no visible form. It was just the voice, and the presence, and the one time it had touched him ... Bruce shuddered, almost tripping over the edge of the rug, and caught himself just in time. It couldn't do that anymore. He was protected.

He put his foot on the first step of the little stair. It creaked beneath him, a sad little wooden sound, forlorn, and Bruce shook his head as a strange sympathy came over him. He knew what loneliness was, and for a second the stairs had felt so lonely ... but that made no sense! Stairs did not feel! Annoyed, a little, Bruce shook his head and began walking up the stairs, his back stiff, his every sense on alert. And then ...

{Bruce}.

The voice was there. No warning. It just was, whispering in the back of his head, gentle and as forlorn as the stairs. He shook, the candleflame dancing in his hand, throwing little red-gold shadows across the stairs, and Bruce had a second of vertigo, where shadow and light blended horribly into each other, and he didn't know which way was up. His free hand reached out desperately for the handrail as he felt himself begin to fall, and in the same instant he sensed the presence rush forward, coming for him, and in raw panic he swept the candle around him as his hand latched white-knuckled to the rail. The presence stopped, for an instant, and Bruce felt unaccountably ashamed, and then ... the candle went out. The rush of air as he swung it had been too much for the valiant little flame.

Darkness fell swiftly and silently over the stairwell, all but complete and barely broken by the distant light of the gaslamps in the corridor below. Bruce froze, his breath stopping in his chest, his heart pounding in terror, and for a long moment, there was only the silence, and the darkness, and the waiting presence.

{Bruce}, it whispered, gently, cajolingly. {I will not harm you. I swear I will not. Do not be afraid. Be easy, or you will harm yourself. Please. I will not hurt you}.

He shook his head in panic, little stabbing motions from side to side, his hand still locked around the rail, the useless candle clutched in the other. He could feel a dull moan building in his throat, his terror threatening to strangle him, and in the part of him that had always looked in at himself from a distance, he reflected that the presence was probably right. His fear was hurting him more that it ever had. But how did you stop being afraid of something?

{Bruce}, the presence whispered, gently, reassuringly, and Bruce could feel it begin to reach. To try and touch him, and there was nothing to stop it, nothing ... He broke, snatching in a sobbing breath, and without even looking dove beyond that sensed reaching, back down the stairs. His foot missed a step, halfway back down, and he tumbled roughly the last few steps. It hurt, and the pain almost shocked him free of his panic, but the thing behind him reached down for him, and even though all he felt from it was raw concern, he could _not_ let it touch him. He leapt to his feet, shivering, moaning, and raced away down the corridor, back the way he had come, desperate and as fast as fear. And the thing did not follow.

He took the big stairs back to the ground floor two at a time, stumbling over his own feet, almost falling again, but he didn't care. He didn't care. He had one aim, and one aim only in mind, and he never even paused to turn as he hit the bottom of the stairs, grabbing hold of the end of the banister and swinging himself desperately around to skid into the downstairs hall. Alfred was already at the kitchen door, hearing his flight, his brows drawn down in concern and shock, and Bruce didn't care. He flung himself in terror into the older man's arms, and clung tight, shaking.

They didn't move for a long time, didn't speak. Bruce held tight to Alfred, shuddering, his face buried in his friend's chest, and for his part Alfred only tightened his arms around Bruce in return, stroking his hair lightly, his voice a soft, concerned rumble, saying nothing much. Bruce could feel the man's wariness, could feel the readiness in his stance, and knew that Alfred was watching the shadows for what had frightened him, ready to protect him. And even though he knew better, for some reason it made Bruce feel safe, to know that Alfred was there. Even if he could do nothing. Even if he might get hurt, and at that thought Bruce tightened his arms protectively around the other man, shaking his head instinctively. Alfred would never be hurt! Bruce wouldn't let him. Not after ... never.

"Bruce?" Alfred asked, gently, after a moment. "Look at me, Bruce. Look up." Bruce did, pulling himself back a little, conscious as his breathing calmed of the tears and terror on his face. He flushed, embarrassed, shamed to be so frightened, shamed by the concern in Alfred's features. But ... but ... He ducked his head, ashamed and afraid, and tried desperately to bully his arms into letting go, to badger his features into calming.

"Sorry," he mumbled, thickly, managing to make one hand let go long enough to start wiping angrily at his face. Alfred smiled sadly, and reached down to take gentle hold of that swiping hand, kneeling down so he could look directly into Bruce's eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked, softly, bluntly, and it was that way they had that meant Alfred didn't care what it was, so long as Bruce let him help solve it. "Tell me. What happened?"

Bruce shook his head, opening his mouth and closing it again, wondering ... how to explain? What could he say? That he heard voices that weren't there, and they frightened him? That something had touched him without touching him, and he never wanted it to happen again? That an invisible, soundless person was on the top stairs, and he didn't dare go past it? He couldn't say that! There was no such things as ghosts! There were no such things. Science said that, and Bruce believed, oh, so desperately believed in science. But ... he had felt it, heard it. He had empirical evidence. He knew what affected it. It was _there_. But ... he didn't know how to explain, and it frustrated him.

"Alright," Alfred said. "Alright. Wait a minute. Come with me." He stood up, still holding tight to Bruce's hand, stepping back a little towards the door to the kitchen. "It's alright, Master Bruce. You've had a shock, and that makes it hard to explain. Come with me. We'll have some hot milk, calm the nerves, and try again. Yes?" Bruce looked up at him, relieved beyond measure, absurdly grateful, and ducked his head.

"I don't need milk," he muttered, but he followed Alfred readily, his hand clasped tight in the other's, and tried not to feel that the shadows at his back were watching him.

The kitchen was brighter, with the fire in the range at full blast on the chilly October night, and the lamps glowing nicely in their niches. Alfred put a pan on the hob, completely ignoring Bruce's assertation that he neither wanted nor needed hot milk, and after a moment Bruce accepted the fact and sat down at the table. A few minutes later, his still faintly trembling hands wrapped around the warm mug, the steam tickling his nose, he blushed in gratitude and very resolutely did not look at his benefactor. Alfred smiled, and they sat in silence for some minutes. The kitchen clock ticked cheerfully away, twenty past ten, and Bruce watched the hand move with the fascination of a scientist, until he finished the milk and put the mug down on the table. Alfred looked at him expectantly.

"There's something upstairs," Bruce said, quickly and nervously, his eyes fixed on the table.

"What type of something?" Alfred asked, after a moment, efficiently and with no sign of disbelief. Bruce looked up at him suspiciously.

"It's...." he started, wary and upset, knowing how this would end, and then simply blurted out, "Do you believe in ghosts, Alfred?"

The older man stared at him, blinking in confusion. He opened his mouth to answer, to say of course not, but a look at Bruce's face, and the desperate honesty of it, gave him pause. "I did not think so," he said, at last. "Do you?"

"No!" Bruce answered, firmly, resolutely, with all the decisiveness of a child. "They can't exist. I know that. But ... Alfred, I think there's a ghost upstairs. I don't know ... There's nothing else it could be!"

Alfred paused, raising his head to stare sightlessly over Bruce's head, and there was something in his face, some fear, some suspicion, that made Bruce dread. The older man looked back at Bruce, finally, his eyes sad and compassionate and a little fearful, and then he said, in as gentle a voice as possible: "Bruce, you don't think ... you know it is not your parents, don't you?"

Bruce stared at him in utter shock for a second, before rage so powerful it all but choked him surged through his chest, and grief, the same grief, the old pain ... He stood in a rush, the chair falling over with a clatter behind him, his small fists clenched and his face white. He glared at Alfred as the old man half-stood in reaction, his fury, his betrayal so strong he couldn't say a thing, and Alfred sagged in sudden comprehension, sad and ashamed.

"Bruce," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean ... I'm sorry."

"I know they're dead!" Bruce managed, spitting it out. "I know ... I know ... they're never coming back. I know. I ... I ..." And his voice broke, shattered, and he sat down on the floor in a heap. He didn't cry. He never cried, not for this, never for this. He'd no tears left for this. He simply sat on the cold floor, rocking gently to and fro, and pretended the little strangled sobs were not coming from his mouth. After a moment, he felt arms come around his shoulders, felt Alfred sit in his own little heap beside him, and turned his face into the man's chest with a cry. Shaking, Alfred held him tight.

"I'm sorry, Bruce," he whispered. "I'm so sorry." Bruce just held tighter, burying his face in Alfred's shirt, and tried not to understand why he had thought it, tried not to remember how he had let himself hope, just for a minute, that first time. Because ghosts weren't real, and they were never coming back.

"It sounded like him," he whispered at last, curled up in Alfred's arms, sniffling and trying to hide it. Alfred said nothing, only listening. "The second time. I think ... when it speaks to me, it does it inside my head, and I think ... I think it listens to me inside my head too. And for a second ... I hoped, Alfred. I really hoped. I wanted ... I wanted to see them again so badly. And I know ... I know it's stupid, but I wanted to ..." He stopped, shaking all over again, and Alfred hugged him close, resting his head atop Bruce's.

"I know," he said, very softly. "I know, Bruce. Oh, my boy, I do know." And Bruce said nothing, curled into him, and waited for the shaking to stop.

"It came to me about a week ago," he began again, calmer, striving to explain. "It's ... I can't see it. I just ... when it's there, I feel it. I can hear it, when it speaks. The first time ... I think it was confused. I think it didn't ... I don't think it knew where it was. But I was too stunned, too scared, and for a minute ... When it came back, the next night, it had my father's voice. It was trying to calm me, I think. But ... I knew, the minute it spoke ... I knew it wasn't him, Alfred. It wasn't my father, and I felt ... I felt so stupid for ever hoping it could be! I felt so ... I was angry. And it ... it tried to touch me."

He shuddered. He couldn't help it. He remembered the sensation, the touch that wasn't a touch, not a real one, the feeling of the presence leaning in and touching something inside him, the part of him that was _him_ , that part that no-one had a right to touch, and he'd been so terrified ... Alfred stiffened, his arms tightening around Bruce protectively, and when he spoke his voice was tight and almost angry.

"Touch you?" he asked, and it was deadly. Bruce stared up in shock, suddenly seeing how cold and terrifying Alfred's eyes could be, wondering at the fierce and steely rage he felt inside his friend. He blinked, realising that he'd never seen Alfred angry before, truly angry. It was ... terrifying.

"Not ... it ..." he started, and didn't know what to say. Because that not-touch had terrified something deep inside him, but seeing this anger, this protective ire, he suddenly wondered if the gesture that he had sensed even then had been meant to comfort ... he wondered if it deserved this rage. He wondered if anything deserved this rage. "Alfred," he said, quietly, hesitantly, waiting until those fierce eyes met his again. "I don't think it meant to hurt me. It was just ... so strange, so ... close. It touched ... I think it tried to touch my soul." He ducked his head, embarrassed by the woolly idea, but knowing no other way to explain. "I think that's what it does," he finished softly.

"I see," Alfred said at last, shortly, unappeased. The anger subsided, a little, ready to return again at the slightest notice, and Bruce suddenly thought that Alfred believed him. He had to. No-one got that angry at something that didn't exist. Alfred ... believed him. Believed in the presence, and from the looks of things was more than ready to fight it for Bruce. The boy looked down in a rush, his face heating, unaccountably warmed by the thought. And then, as quickly as it had gone, the anger rose again, and Alfred looked down at Bruce in sudden and possessive fear. "What happened tonight?" he asked. "Bruce, what did it ... what happened?"

Bruce looked up at him, blinking at the demand, awed by the sudden power he sensed inside his friend. Alfred glared fiercely at him, ready to ... for a second, Bruce honestly thought Alfred would set the house on fire to protect him, if he had to, if it was the only way to protect Bruce from this spirit. And in the same moment, thinking that, he realised that he couldn't let him. He had been selfish, he thought suddenly, too caught up in his own fear to think of anything else. The ghost ... it had never tried to hurt him, he knew that. And because he was afraid of it, because he had let his fear master him, someone he cared about very much was willing to harm that spirit, just to appease Bruce's fear. And that ... was not right.

"Alfred," he said, sitting up fully, meeting Alfred's eyes directly. "It didn't mean to hurt me. I don't think it ever did. I'm just ... I was frightened, so frightened by it. It ... It's been following me, the last few nights, and every time it speaks ... I just get more frightened, and I know I shouldn't!"

"If it makes you afraid," Alfred began, severely, but Bruce cut him off.

"It doesn't mean to!" he cried, frustrated. "Alfred ... this is all my fault!" He cut off with a moan of frustration, sinking back down to sit disconsolately beside his friend. Alfred watched him, saying nothing, and Bruce suddenly got the feeling that Alfred knew this, knew that he had let his fear master him, knew that it was something ... that it was something Bruce was going to have to solve on his own. That he was going to have to solve. That he ... that he _would_ solve, dammit!

He straightened suddenly, feeling the determination firming in his chest, feeling the frustration with himself morph into something harder, something fiercer and stronger. He stood, pulling himself to his feet in a rush, ignoring the pain in his side where he had bruised himself falling down the stairs. He straightened, almost vibrating with determination, and turned to find Alfred watching him warily from the floor. Bruce held out his hand, determined, almost demanding, and saw a sudden, faint smile flicker over the older man's features. He wondered why.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred questioned softly as he pulled himself more slowly to his feet, with Bruce's help. Bruce looked up at him, his face set, and nodded towards the door.

"This is all my fault," he said, quietly, stubbornly. "And I've worried you. I have to fix it. Will you ... will you come?" His voice faltered a bit, a little uncertain, but Alfred only smiled.

"I certainly shall!" he answered, and there was a hint of something grim in the statement. "I would have a few words with this spirit of yours, Master Bruce, believe me." And Bruce did, and it embarrassed him horribly. But he said nothing, only went to the cupboard to fetch a candle, feeling Alfred's eyes on him as he did. Without turning around, rooting in the drawers for matches, he tried to explain.

"It doesn't like fire," he mumbled, fiddling with the matchstick. "It won't come near an open flame. I noticed when it came to my room the third night. It's alright with the lamps, but a candle keeps it back."

"I see," Alfred noted, repressively, and Bruce frowned at him, wondering what he'd said to offend. But the candle chose that moment to flare into life, and seized again by a sense of purpose, Bruce felt too pressed to ask. Reaching out instinctively, feeling Alfred take his free hand, Bruce held the little flame tightly, and walked out into the shadowed hall at Alfred's side.

They took the stairs without hesitation, Bruce leading, the candle held out ahead of them, his every sense open and searching for the presence, Alfred a step behind, watchful and ready to protect. The confidence Bruce felt, having him at his back ... he should probably have told Alfred earlier, he thought ruefully. Except that he doubted he could have, and he'd told him now, so there was no point thinking about it.

The presence was nowhere to be felt on the first floor. He hadn't expected it to be. In truth, he thought it was probably hiding from him, especially since Alfred was with him. But he had determined to settle this, to find it, even if it took all night. He had to make this right, and he was fully determined to do so.

And then they were at the little stairs up towards his room, and Bruce felt it. Not on the stairs. Somewhere above them, waiting. It was letting him know where it was, he thought, letting him come. Maybe it already understood what he intended, understood that he was sorry ... but an apology is not an apology until it is spoken. His father had taught him that, and he intended to live up to it.

Alfred followed him silently as he walked with sudden confidence up the stairs, along the landing at the top, towards his room. His questing senses felt the gentle touch, the hint of the presence, approval, and he knew he'd been right. It was waiting, inside, and it had felt what had gone on downstairs. He stopped, just inside his door, the candle flickering in his hand, and felt Alfred come to a stop beside him.

"It's here," he whispered hoarsely, and Alfred nodded tightly.

"I know," he said, and Bruce realised that Alfred could feel it too, could sense the thing as it reached gently out to them. Not to touch, not the way it had that one and only time. Just to ... be close to them, to let them know it was there, wished to speak.

{Bruce}, it whispered, and there was definite shame in the feeling of the voice in his head. Bruce frowned.

"A moment, if you please," Alfred interrupted, stepping forward between Bruce and where he sensed the presence was, blocking the candle as he did so, and Bruce felt an instinctive quiver of fear, that Alfred had left himself defenceless, a sudden and overwhelming need to protect. But Alfred kept his grip on Bruce's hand, and made sure he did not move. "I would have a word with you first."

{Yes}, the presence sent, after a moment, and Bruce thought it knew what was coming. He certainly did, and wanted to duck down out of sight because of it.

"I do not know who or what you are," Alfred began, frostily. "If Bruce is right, then perhaps you have been confused, lost. Perhaps even hurt. And for that, I am sorry. But what you have done in this house ... You have frightened and distressed a grieving child, taken advantage of his grief to make yourself known to him, caused him to hurt himself in fear. Whoever or whatever you are, whatever your reasons ... there is one word for such behaviour, and that is despicable!" He stopped, stiff and upright and furious, and Bruce blinked back sudden tears.

{I know}, the presence answered, very quietly, very sadly. {I am sorry. I did not ... I did not understand, until the damage was done, and I ... I do not know how to undo it. Forgive me}. Bruce felt it turn towards him, sensed its attention shift to him, and stared stiffly straight ahead, trying to ignore the fear that still clamoured in the back of his mind, beneath his chest. {Bruce, I am sorry}.

"So am I," he said, quickly, in a rush, but he was determined. "I ... I wanted to believe you were someone else, and I was angry, and ... and frightened. I'm sorry. I know you didn't mean to hurt me. I ... I apologise for acting so badly towards you."

For a long minute, the presence was silent, as if stunned, and Bruce wondered angrily was it so surprising that he could recognise when he'd been wrong, when he sensed it moving again, towards them, just a little. It stopped as soon as Alfred moved to stand more protectively in front of Bruce, but he could feel it wavering, reaching gently towards them.

{Please}, it said, gently, pleadingly. {Allow me ... Let me explain. Let me show you what I am. Please. Put out the candle. Please ... the flame ... it is too fresh. I cannot bear it. Please. I have no wish to harm you}.

Bruce stood, staring blindly at nothing for a long minute, wrestling with the fear inside him, and something else. A sympathy, a curiosity. When it mentioned the flame ... there had been a flavour to the thought that he recognised. Grief. It had felt like grief, and if anyone understood what that felt like, it was Bruce. It knew that, of course. It could see inside him. But ... it had never meant to hurt him. He knew that.

He looked up at Alfred, just the once, his eyes questioning. Because Alfred was here too, in danger too if this was the wrong thing to do. But Alfred looked down at him with absolute confidence, and nodded, once.

Bruce blew out the candle.

The darkness was as quick to flow around them as it had been on the stairs, but here, illuminated by the silvery moonlight from the window, it was not nearly so deep, not nearly so frightening. Bruce's eyes took a moment to adjust, a moment where he clung without shame to Alfred's hand, felt the other man squeeze his hand in return, and then ... He could see something. A kind of haze, just ahead of them, just visible against the moonlight. About the height of a very tall man above the floor, something began to take shape, two pinpricks, red, ruby-red, glowing, like eyes. Like eyes. And the voice of the presence in his head confirmed it.

{Yes}, it said. {I have a form. I would show you, but ... the last of your kind I revealed myself to ... he died. He could not believe me, could not accept. That is why I did not show myself, because I did not wish to frighten you like that}. It paused for a second, and finished ruefully. {I do not think that worked very well}.

"No," Bruce whispered, and felt for an instant the wry humour of the presence, and wanted very badly to laugh. "No, it did not. And after that, I don't think you need worry. We're ready for anything, by this stage." It did not answer. It simply materialised, and Bruce stared in awe.

A strange, green creature, almost man-shaped, strangely ... elongated, with hard green skin like a reptile and glowing red eyes. The moonlight poured over strange angles, outlining the shadows pooled in strange crevices, an angular, almost spidery figure. Whatever their presence was, it was not human, that much was for certain. Bruce knew that should frighten him, but all he felt was ... relief. That at least this was something he could touch, could see, could learn to understand. It was not some voice whispering in the back of his head. It was another person, an entity, something he could relate to.

It watched them carefully, seeing their confusion, their assessment, but most of all their lack of panic, of fear. It saw that, and shook its head ruefully. {I was wrong indeed}, it muttered, and held out one long hand towards Alfred, who looked at it for a long moment, then reached forward and accepted it. {My name ... well, you may call me J'onn. I am from Ma'aleca'andra. I think you call it Mars}.

"Mars!" Bruce burst out, shocked and excited, and suddenly a dozen questions were tumbling through his brain, a thousand wonders ... and then he remembered something, the sense of grief from the flame, and now the same again from that declaration of origin, and the questions swallowed themselves. J'onn looked at him, sadly, compassionately.

{You need not fear to ask}. He shook his head, shame once again in the sense of his presence. {I have learned your grief despite your wishes, your past. I would not withhold mine from you. It would not be right}.

Bruce nodded, but before he could ask even one such question, he felt ... weak. Tired. It was as if all the energy, all the stiff fight he had held inside himself against this meeting, fled in an instant with the relief of the truth of the presence, and everything he had felt and done tonight caught back up with him in a rush. He made no sound, but his hand shook a little in Alfred's, and the older man turned to look sharply down at him. Bruce met his questioning gaze with a little shake of his head, embarrassed, tired, and Alfred nodded briefly.

"That may be so," he said softly, addressing J'onn. "But not now. Not tonight. Master Bruce has been through rather enough for one evening, I think. You can explain in the morning, Master J'onn."

{Of course}, the presence ... J'onn ... murmured, but Bruce couldn't see his expression, because Alfred had scooped him up absolutely without ceremony, and carried him past their visitor to lay him down on his bed. Bruce batted at his hands gently when he felt the man start to loosen his tie, to remove his shoes, but Alfred quelled that with a quick glare, and Bruce subsided, letting Alfred prepare him for bed.

Truth be told, he never even heard them leave.

_October 1892:_

"Master Bruce!"

An eighteen year old Bruce Wayne stood up in the study, putting down the book he had been examining and tilting his head to watch the door. Alfred appeared silently a moment later, someone at his back, and Bruce tipped his head quizzically and warily to the side. "Alfred?"

"We have a visitor, Master Bruce," the older man announced repressively. "The gentleman claims to have heard of your interest in ... less ordinary matters, and wishes to have a word with you."

Bruce shook his head, sighing heavily. Not again. He was not interested in another quack, professing to see futures, or spirits, or the mystical realms. He had had quite enough of that, and was about to tell Alfred to show the man out again, when the visitor in question stepped right around Alfred and into the study. Bruce stiffened, staring, and saw Alfred direct such a chill stare at the man's back that it was a wonder that he did not grow icicles, but the man was speaking, and suddenly all Bruce's attention was on him.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he murmured, bowing low, the white streak in his rich red hair gleaming in the sunlight. When he stood, his blue eyes cut directly into Bruce's, an aura of power around him that had nothing to do with the richness of his evening dress or the strength of his physical form. {My name is Jason Blood}, the man said, quietly, directly to Bruce's mind, and smiled slightly when Bruce stiffened immediately, a hand reaching for the letter-opener on the desk, ready to fight. Somewhere in the house, he could feel J'onn turn to them in dismay and ready defense, and stood ready to defend them all.

"What do you want?" he demanded, softly, his weapon ready in his hand, however useless it may prove. He did not intend to go down without a fight.

"You will not need that," Blood answered, gently. "Nor your friend at my back his little surprise. I have not come to threaten you, or your house, or the creature you harbour. I give you my word, by my blood and my magic. I wish you no harm."

{Does he mean it?} Bruce asked J'onn, as the other materialised at his shoulder, wondering even as he asked if J'onn could even touch this man. But J'onn nodded.

{He has opened his mind to me, in part. He means what he says. But ... there is something more inside him ... another ... another entity. And that one ... that one I think would hurt anyone, for no reason at all. This man is dangerous, Bruce. Alfred.}

{I am indeed}, Blood answered, and Bruce sensed that he was addressing all three of them. {But I mean what I say. You have an interest in the other, a need to understand. And I ... I have a need of a place to stay, for a little while. I would offer you my services, my expertise, in exchange for that, if you would agree. No more. My demon ... I control him, and I give you my solemn word that should that ever change, I will leave you before he can harm anyone here.}

Bruce looked at him for a long minute, seeing the calm of him, the confidence, the power, but underneath ... something. Something that spoke to him as much as J'onn had, something all three of them recognised. Something all three of them understood, far too well.

It is a terrible thing, to be alone.

He looked at J'onn, at Alfred, silently asking. And they looked back, considering, seeing his intent, and silently they agreed.

"I'll prepare a room, Master Blood," Alfred said, brusquely. "But in future, I would ask that you respect the rules of this house, and not attempt to gainsay me!" Both J'onn and Bruce nodded solemnly.

"It's a bad idea," Bruce explained with a smile, and watched as something eased in the man. It was the right choice, he thought suddenly, feeling J'onn's agreement beside him. Whatever the dangers of this man, and there were many, Bruce was sure of that ... whatever the dangers, there was something in him they all recognised.

And as Jason Blood sat down to introduce himself properly, he wondered if it was something about the house that attracted such people. Or simply something about him.

**Author's Note:**

> On a completely shallow note, may I say the idea of Jason Blood in period costume is ... very appealling? *grins sheepishly*


End file.
